


Rely on Me

by Mottlemoth



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Date, First Kiss, First Time, Greg Lestrade to the Rescue, Happy Ending, Holmes Brothers Drama, M/M, Power Swap AU, Protective Greg, Rampant Feelings, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Tenderness, Vulnerable Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-05-29 14:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15074876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mottlemoth/pseuds/Mottlemoth
Summary: Power Swap AU. Greg is Sally Donovan's sergeant, Mycroft is Anthea's PA—and Sherlock Holmes is still a pain in the arse.DI Donovan has sworn to punish Sherlock if she catches him at another of her crime scenes. Greg's tired of having his ear twisted about it, but it feels like there's not a lot he can do. Meanwhile Mycroft struggles to balance the demands of his career with the needs of his little brother. Keeping control of Sherlock is almost impossible.If only there were someone he could rely on.





	1. Irregular

**Author's Note:**

> This story is written with all my love and best wishes for eys93, who first chatted about this idea with me many months ago. I really hope you like it, sweet. Thank you so much for giving me the opportunity to finally write it.

It was all over the evening news.

 

 _PRIVATE DETECTIVE SOLVES JESSICA KELLY DISAPPEARANCE:  
_ _Family criticise 'police failings from day one'_

 

Greg watched the footage wincing, sitting in his flat in the semi-darkness with a bowl of warmed up pasta on his knee.

This wasn't going to go down well. There was a lengthy clip of the boss from the initial press conference, looking sour and tired as journalists asked her about rumours of this, rumours of that. There was a shot of her storming down the steps of Scotland Yard, looking harried, with Greg hurrying to keep pace behind her. There was an interview with Jessica Kelly's family, saying they got the impression that the police didn't care about finding Jessica at all - and thanking Sherlock Holmes, from the very bottom of their hearts, for bringing her home to them safely.

As far as damning media coverage went, this was the top of the pile.

It was going to be a long day at work tomorrow.

 

*

 

Greg got there early. He needed to make sure the DI had a caramel latte on her desk before she even set foot through the door, or his life wouldn't be worth living.

Sure enough, when Sally arrived for the day, she was fourteen different shades of furious.

Greg had a feeling she'd saved the shouting up all night. She ranted for the better part of an hour, and nobody escaped her anger: the bloody press, treating Scotland Yard like some kind of slack customer service department - bloody forensics, slow as always, dragging their heels with every single report - the bloody family, holding evidence back until a private detective shows up and suddenly they remember oh yeah, she _did_ keep a diary - bloody Greg! Why didn't he make sure the team had checked the house _thoroughly?_ How come the diary got missed in the initial search? Hadn't he been a sergeant long enough now to figure out how it works? - and finally, last but by no means least, Sherlock Bloody Holmes.

Sticking his nose in. Sweeping in at the final second for applause. Hovering about her crime scenes, like a fly around shit.

Sherlock Holmes was dodgy, and Sally knew it.

She wanted him pulled in, to check whether he was in on Jessica's disappearance. It didn't make sense how he knew half the things that he knew - and he said he just _looked?_

 _"We_ looked!" she roared, gesturing in fury at the mountain of paperwork the case created - all now pointless, all a waste of time. Greg was biting his tongue so hard it hurts. "We looked, for Christ's sake! We looked _everywhere!_ Then he turns up, and suddenly there's more to see?"

She threw back the last of her latte with a grimace, and tossed the cup straight into the bin.

"I'm not having it," she said. "Not anymore, Lestrade. That freak has interfered in my cases for the last time."

Greg lifted his eyes from the carpet, well aware he was on thin ice here.

"At - least the girl's home safe, ma'am," he said. "There's that to hang onto."

Sally looked at him across her desk. Fury flashed in her eyes.

"Sure," she said. "Yeah. _Great._ Home safe and well - and it's all thanks to _Sherlock Bloody Holmes._ Dancing into _our_ case at the last moment, magicking a diary out of nowhere, and now the chief superintendent's going to be down here any second to roast my arse over a flame. _Again._ Let's hang onto that _tight,_ Lestrade, shall we?"

Greg returned his eyes to the carpet, inhaling.

_Christ, here goes... I never learn._

"Boss, this - might not be the best time to remind you... but I did _say_ the younger sister knew something. If we'd pulled her in for interview again, away from the parents, we wouldn't've needed the diary. We'd have found out about the - "

Sally's jaw set. "Right," she said. "Why am I hearing this for the first time _now?"_

 _Christ._ "I - said before, ma'am. Twice."

"I don't remember this."

 _Of course you don't._ "After her first interview, ma'am. Then again, in the car on the way to Cambridge, when you were considering whether we - "

"Well, how about you _speak up_ next time, Lestrade?" Sally barked, drowning him out. "Instead of claiming after the fact that you had this whole thing in the bag, yeah? That'd be a bit more helpful for what we're trying to achieve here."

She seized the top report in her in-tray, threw it down on her desk and dragged out her chair.

"Coffee," she snapped at him. "Now. If you get any calls from the press, the case is ongoing and we're not discussing it."

_Ongoing? They've found her, boss. She's sat at home in her pyjamas, watching cartoons and eating cereal._

"Right," said Greg, carefully keeping the weariness out of his voice. "I'll tell the rest of the team. What d'you want me to do if the chief super rings?"

Sally gave him a look that suggests he was in danger of hitting brand new level of stupidity.

 _"Put him through,_ Lestrade. What else would you do? Sing to him? Tell him jokes? He's not going to be ringing to ask about your weekend, is he?"

 _Right._ Greg kept it together. "Yes, ma'am."

"Don't forget my coffee."

"I won't, ma'am."

"And you can fetch it _without_ the sulky tone, Lestrade - or I'll find you something to sulk about."

Greg bit his cheek. "Right. Sorry, ma'am."

He went off to fetch her coffee, his head down, and decided he'd just try and stay out of her way today.

He could only hope they didn't hear from Sherlock Holmes again too soon.

 

*

 

It had taken six months for Mycroft to summon the courage.

As he made the request, garbling his way through an explanation of how few resources it will take, and how little disruption it will cause, Anthea surveyed him over her afternoon Earl Grey without a word. He'd been her PA for six years now - this was the first thing he'd ever asked of her.

It was a uniquely terrifying experience nonetheless.

As he came towards the end of his explanation, panicking silently beneath his composure and feeling like a helicopter about to make a spectacular crash landing, his employer gave an arch of one pristinely-sculpted eyebrow.

"Mycroft," she said, silencing him at once. "This is - _highly_ irregular..."

Mycroft ignored the instinctive flash of heat across his face. "I'm aware, Miss Harding - and I apologise for the impropriety. I wouldn't ask if it weren't of great importance to me."

His employer sighed, slowly, placing her Earl Grey back in its bone china saucer.

"Whether it's of great importance to the _nation,_ Mycroft, is very much another matter... and this individual is a close relation of yours?"

"My younger brother, Miss Harding. Sherlock."

"Mm. And he's 'difficult', you say?"

"He - has a certain activity of mind, which sometimes drives him to pursue his obsessions to the point of inconveniencing others." _To put it lightly._ "He's quite harmless, though, and no security risk to you at all. He's merely a cause of aggravation to certain public bodies."

Anthea's expression did not move. "Scotland Yard?" she said.

Mycroft hesitated. "Yes. He... fancies himself an amateur scholar of crime."

His employer huffed softly, amused by this idea.

"And you'd now like to leverage your position with the security services to acquire official backing for these studies of his, would you?"

Mycroft's fingers curled into his palms. "No, Miss Harding. Entirely the opposite. If Sherlock could be put under minor surveillance, I believe I'd be able to manage him with much greater success."

Anthea sat back in her chair, crossing one stockinged-leg neatly over the other. She considered her assistant for some time, reading him - measuring him - coming to conclusions.

"Are you currently having a _lack_ of success in managing him, Mycroft?" she inquired.

Mycroft held his nerve, and held her gaze. "Not to the detriment of my duties."

"If your duties are unaffected," she said, slowly, "then why is surveillance necessary?"

Mycroft felt his stomach twist. "It - would bring me peace of mind."

"Indeed. I'm not sure the primary concern of this department is your 'peace of mind'..." Anthea reached for her tea cup.

Mycroft knew to stay silent as she drank; she wasn't finished speaking.

Placing it down in the saucer, without even a hint of a lipstick smudge, she said, "If I authorised this surveillance... and you were this very afternoon alerted that he was about to create a menace of himself... what precisely would you do?"

"Speak to him," Mycroft said, his heart beating hard. "Reason with him. Ensure his disruption is minimised, as much as I can."

Her eyebrow lifted. "And you're currently so unoccupied that you could abandon your desk in a heartbeat, are you? Rather alarming."

_Oh... god..._

"Not at all, Miss Harding. I would only go to Sherlock at the first convenience."

"It is _not_ convenient," his employer said, flatly. "Ever, Mycroft. Your duties to the nation take precedence over your rambunctious personal life. If a member of your immediate family has become a nuisance to the authorities, then perhaps the deserved jail sentence would be of more benefit than surveillance."

Mycroft's heart clenched.

Incarceration would trigger every single one of his brother's darker instincts. The ready accessibility of drugs inside UK prisons would not aid the situation in any way. From what he'd been able to learn from his own limited inquiries, the investigating officer in charge of the Jessica Kelly case had now sworn something of an oath of vengeance against Sherlock. It seemed there was history - and if Detective Inspector Donovan caught him interfering in one more investigations, Sherlock could expect the harshest penalty that Scotland Yard could possibly command for him.

It would break Mycroft's brother - and Mycroft - into pieces.

He was struggling to conceal the smoking wreckage of his life as it was.

Miss Harding was by no means a breezy employer; their department handled matters of international significance on an almost daily basis. Mycroft needed his full and uninterrupted focus if he was to be of any assistance to her whatsoever. There were a thousand others ready to take his place, all equally as qualified as he was, many of them much younger - and not one of them saddled with a sibling like Sherlock. While Mycroft never failed Anthea's expectations, he knew that her expectations grew year on year. If he couldn't be what she needed, sentiment wouldn't keep him his position. He'd be replaced swiftly and without a tear, for the good of the nation.

All his waking thoughts went towards his career. Those few he could spare went to Sherlock, and never comfortably. It had been years since he had the time to maintain hobbies, interests or friendships - and many, _many_ years since he'd had the luxury of something as indulgent as dating.

In truth, Mycroft was resigning himself to the sad and sorry fate he'd created: a glorified secretary, worrying himself into migraines over a brother who couldn't care less.

His only vague attempt at recreation came from ensuring that his wardrobe and appearance were fitting for an MI5 master's personal assistant. If his sartorial sharpness helped to convince the young upstarts who were snapping at his heels that he still very much valued his position, all the dieting and skincare and slim-cut suits would be worth it - though it was hardly a relaxing pastime.

If Sherlock could just be monitored, life would be so much easier.

Looking up at his employer with desperation, Mycroft gripped his knee beneath the desk. He made the decision to risk being candid.

"Miss Harding," he said, calmly. "I regret to disappoint you that I have a weakness. A _single_ weakness - and it is my brother. Though his welfare concerns me greatly, he isn't receptive to my concerns and I have always had immense difficulty in handling him. His - _particularities_ are now causing disruption and annoyance to the authorities, who deserve to do their duties unimpeded. All I ask is that Sherlock be assigned the very lowest level of surveillance - even _partial_ surveillance - and it will take an enormous weight from my mind. It will free me to assist you with even greater diligence, and it will no doubt be appreciated by Scotland Yard."

He hesitated, knowing this was his one chance to ask.

 _"Please,_ Miss Harding. I - have asked very little of you during my employment... and I believe that I've served you well."

Anthea visibly ran her tongue behind her teeth.

"I believe I've _paid_ you well, Mycroft," she purred. "Such is the nature of employment..."

Mycroft didn't dare to breathe. He watched her reach for her tea-cup, delicately extending her little finger.

"However," she added, sleekly, "I appreciate that families are a trial for us all... and I believe that the cost of these measures will be far less than the cost of a drop in your productivity."

She met his eyes, cool.

"I'm willing to authorise level two surveillance," she said. Mycroft's heart leapt skywards inside his chest. "On the firm understanding that this is the very last I ever hear about it. If I suspect that you're abandoning your duties twice a week to attend to your 'peace of mind', we will have very serious words on the matter - many of them short. Is that clear?"

Heat and cold raced down the back of Mycroft's neck at once. _Thank heavens. Thank God._ "Crystal clear, Miss Harding."

"Excellent. Then I believe we're finished here." She waved a hand; Mycroft rose swiftly from the chair. "Are the Strickland files up to date?"

"Yes, and available on the internal network - and I've commenced the report into Blakeley's findings in Ostrava. The translation has taken some time but it's not beyond my skills."

"Good," she said. "In my inbox by tomorrow morning, please." She reached for her mobile phone, and unlocked it idly with a thumb. "I'll be dining at The Ledbury this evening, Mycroft. I don't expect to be disturbed."

Mycroft nodded without comment. As he let himself out of her office, he wondered which of her various lovers could count himself a lucky young man this evening.

Perhaps with Sherlock under surveillance, he might even find time for a lucky young man of his own one of these days.

As Mycroft settled at his desk to start balancing Miss Harding's travel receipts, he snorted to himself.

_Chance would be a fine thing._

 


	2. Whitfield Street

Surveillance took two weeks of careful organising. It began in June without any problems. 

Miss Harding had authorised only low-level monitoring, but Mycroft was able to augment it with his own quiet checks in spare moments. It helped that, after the Jessica Kelly case, Sherlock seemed to have entered one of his paralytic mental slumps. His bank account showed frequent payments made at the nearest off-licence to Baker Street - cigarettes, Mycroft assumed - but otherwise, it seemed he was not a serious cause for concern at this time.

It lulled Mycroft into something of a false sense of security.

 

*

 

It was July when the problems started again. 

The morning had been spent in the office, finalising arrangements for Anthea's leading role at the summit in August. She had a meeting at two PM for which Mycroft would need to be present, but with an otherwise comfortable workload, he decided to afford himself an actual lunch hour for once. He had a shirt to exchange at Hawes and Curtis, not at all convinced that the deeper blue was forgiving on his under-eye shadows. His usual shade of frosted mint would have to suffice.

He informed Miss Harding where he would be going. She let him go with a wave and a half-smile over her green salad, reminding him that he'd need to return by half past one. There was no offer of a car made, but that was quite usual - Mycroft would hardly have expected her to send a driver to assist him with his errands.

Though Oxford Street was busy, Mycroft caught the familiar sound of an e-mail alert as he left Hawes and Curtis. He adjusted the bag over his arm, retrieved his mobile and checked it, half-expecting a summons from Anthea.

It was from the surveillance team. 

A person of low-level interest had made an unusual excursion outside of their habits. The target left Baker Street some twenty minutes ago, and had just appeared in CCTV on Whitfield Street.

Mycroft stared at the words 'Whitfield Street', wondering why his heart-rate had suddenly accelerated.

He then recalled with a lurch the six AM traffic report on the radio. He'd listened to it as he prepared Miss Harding's grapefruit for her. Whitfield Street was closed at both ends - due to a serious assault in the early hours of the morning.

It was ten minutes' walk from Oxford Street.

Mycroft made it in five.

 

*

 

Greg was in the building overseeing the collection of physical evidence when the alarm went up. Uniform had spotted someone sliding beneath the street barrier, and attempting to gain access into a building through a vent. 

It was all over in seconds. Sherlock Holmes was hauled back out of the vent, dishevelled and now dirty, and in the absence of the investigating officer he was hauled before her sergeant.

Greg had never met the man himself. He'd seen photos of him, and the odd TV clip, and he'd followed the famous blog for weeks - but Sherlock Holmes in the flesh was rather sharper and less noble than Greg anticipated.

"May I at least examine the scene before I receive my slap on the wrist?" he demanded at once, now confined in the back of a police van with a constable on either arm. "I very much doubt you'll have emptied  _ every  _ waste bin - and if you  _ have,  _ you won't have noted the significance of six days of single bus tickets followed by a return."

Greg frowned through the open doors, folding his arms across his chest. He wanted to smile, but wasn't sure why. The frown kept it in check.

"Why bother dropping cryptic hints?" he said. "Save it for the papers, Sherlock. They'll be far more impressed."

Sherlock Holmes rolled his eyes so hard his head went with them. 

"For heaven's sake," he snapped. "I have never spoken to a newspaper. Not one. Hardly my fault that the press adore seeing you lot make a mess of things... hardly my fault the public are so bloodthirsty to hear it."

He glared at Greg, lifting his chin.

"Perhaps if you cared to  _ listen  _ more often," he said, "to seek outside assistance when you are overwhelmed, and to open your minds to less  _ drudgeonly  _ methods of deduction, you wouldn't be pilloried by the public quite as often as you are... and the public wouldn't have to resort to bothering  _ me." _

Greg had to hand it to the guy. He had some attitude on him, at least.

"Scotland Yard are  _ always  _ happy to listen," he said. "S'why you should  _ contact us  _ with your suspicions, Mr Holmes - then let us handle these things officially. My governor's going to lose her mind when she hears you were sniffing round again, you know that? Tampering with a crime scene is itself a crime. She'll have you in the cells this time."

Sherlock Holmes tutted, muttering something under his breath. 

Greg leant into the van, cupping his ear.

"What was that, sorry?"

"I  _ said,"  _ Sherlock Holmes barked, "that you have never been amenable to my 'suspicions' - by which you mean  _ conclusions -  _ before."

Greg nearly laughed. "'Cause you never tell us them, do you?"

Sherlock Holmes tutted again. "I very much beg to differ."

"What d'you mean?"

"For a time I supplied your inspector with my conclusions in every instance. When she constantly failed to do anything, I took it upon myself. I now continue to inform Scotland Yard of my findings, in some cases several days before I act on them, without fail. That your superior officer chooses to ignore them is no fault of mine."

For a second, Greg wasn't certain he'd heard right.

"You - you  _ tell Sally - ?" _

"By text. Or by e-mail." Sherlock Holmes cast him a reluctant scowl. "I used to attempt contact by phone. She now hangs up."

_ Jesus Christ. _

Greg's heart had begun to beat fast. Sally painted the guy as a meddling glory-stealer, fame-hungry, getting off on humiliating Scotland Yard - but he'd been tipping them off in advance all this time.

"Why d'you do it?" he said, still staring into the van. "Why - crimes, why're you..."

Sherlock Holmes didn't reply for a moment, glowering. He then lowered his eyes to the floor.

"I get - bored," he said.

Before Greg could even begin to reply, a uniformed constable appeared at his side. 

"Skip?"

Greg looked around, startled. "Yeah?"

"There's a bloke at the barrier. Telling us he needs to speak to DI Donovan urgently..." The constable pulled a face.  _ "'Of paramount importance', _ so he says."

_ Bloody hell, what now?  _ Greg hadn't even had lunch. "Right... fine. Show me. You two keep hold of him."

The constable led him down the street, to where the yellow crime scene tape fluttered in a thin breeze. After Sherlock Holmes's invasion, there was now a gaggle of uniformed officers standing guard in high-vis jackets.

Standing with them was a flustered-looking man in a suit - an  _ expensive  _ suit, Greg noted - mid-grey, slim-cut, with an ice-blue shirt and a silver tie. His auburn hair was neatly kept; the short beard served to show how well-groomed it was. For all his careful styling, the guy was clearly out of breath and on the brink of panic.

Greg's heart squeezed at the sight of him.

He'd always been a little weak to posh - especially posh and anxious. 

_ Alright, knight-in-shining armour. Rein it in. Guy's probably about to complain about something... _

As Greg strode over towards the barrier, Posh Suit noticed his approach. His face opened in desperation.

"Detective Inspector Donovan?" he said. He looked prepared to plead.

Greg tried not to dwell on it.

"She's at Scotland Yard," he said, as the uniformed officers shuffled away. "I'm her sergeant - it's Lestrade. Can I help you?"

The guy swallowed.

"Sergeant Lestrade," he said - and Greg had never heard his name breathed like that, like he held someone's life in his hands. "My name is M-Mycroft Holmes. I am a Whitehall clerk. I'm afraid I've come to warn you - a-and to beg your assistance."

Greg's eyebrows lifted at once.  _ "Warn  _ me?"

"I - believe you've had dealings with my brother." Mycroft Holmes flushed. "His name is Sherlock."

There was an almost audible click as Greg's thoughts slotted into place.  _ "Ah." _

"If I'm correct, he may be on his way here. There's a strong possibility he intends to interfere with the investigation - something I very much wish to prevent."

Greg hesitated.

Mycroft Holmes read the pause correctly. Despair flooded his features. 

"Oh,  _ god -  _ has he - ?"

Greg pressed his cheek into the inside of his cheek. "Caught him trying to crawl up a vent into one of the buildings... something about bus tickets?"

Mycroft Holmes covered his face. "God help me... has he been taken to...?"

"Not yet." Greg glanced over his shoulder at the waiting van, uneasy. "We've got him in the back. I'm about to ring my DI. I'm not sure she's gonna be too - "

Before he could say another word, Mycroft Holmes reached out across the tape.

He took hold of Greg's arm; desperation burned in his eyes.

"Sergeant Lestrade - please. Please give me a minute of your time first. You have every reason to inform your superior, but -  _ please.  _ I beg you."

Greg realised his mouth has opened. He closed it, and said, "Right."

Mycroft Holmes looked into his eyes - as if they were the only two people on the street right now, as if there was nobody else in the world.

"My brother suffers from excessive activity of the mind," he said. Greg realised Mycroft's fingers were shaking. "He is very intelligent, and very much drawn to unanswered questions. I'm afraid this fascination of his often leads towards criminal investigations, especially those cases which are by their nature strange or apparently unsolvable."

Mycroft visibly inhaled, fortifying himself.

"He is not a bad person, sergeant. He doesn't intend to humiliate you, or your superior, or the police force at large. For him, the puzzle is everything - the problem, and its solution - he - l-lapses into the use of narcotics when his mind is unoccupied. I have laboured all my life to keep him away from them. I appreciate the inconvenience he has caused you, and the disrespect he shows towards your superior - a-and truly, sergeant, nobody understands her frustration more than I do - but  _ please." _

Mycroft Holmes had turned white-pale, two pink spots of colour high in his cheeks. He was still holding Greg's arm.

"Please allow me to speak to him," he breathed. "Please, let me attempt to explain to him the folly of his actions. Please do not contact Inspector Donovan. He will not listen to her. He is -  _ stubborn, _ and - a-and if he is imprisoned, I believe the harm i-it will cause him is - "

Greg couldn't bear it.

Before he knew what he was doing, he'd taken Mycroft's hand in both his own. He closed his fingers around it, with care, and watched Mycroft stutter to a halt.

"Listen - Mr Holmes - "

"M-Mycroft. Please."

"Mycroft. I'll... admit to you your brother causes us some headaches. A  _ lot  _ of headaches, frankly. Most of the headaches he causes me come from how damn mad he makes my boss. She's not happy with him. At all. If he keeps winding her up, she's going to see him behind bars."

Mycroft's expression ached. "I am so sorry."

"No, it's... Jesus, it's not your fault. I mean - if this is an  _ obsession  _ for him - and if people go and hire him, then..."

Greg watched as Mycroft breathed in deeply.

"Sergeant, I will do  _ anything -  _ anything in my power - for you to aid me in this matter. Please do not tell your superior he was here. Release him to me, and I will reason with him.  _ Anything  _ in my power."

Greg hesitated, feeling his heart thud in his throat. "Is he gonna listen to you?"

Mycroft flushed. "Yes. He will, this time."

_ "This  _ time?"

"We - h-have previously disagreed on a number of... but I will make him listen, sergeant. Please. I will ensure he stops being a nuisance to you. I swear it."

Greg glanced back at the van, hesitating.

He imagined Sally hanging up, deleting texts, deleting e-mails unread, raging about The Freak and his interference.

He looked back at Mycroft, very seriously.

"Listen, I... don't know if I can take your word for that. M'sorry, Mr Holmes. If he's not listened to you before, why would things change now?"

"Because I am now desperate." Mycroft gripped his hands. He lowered his chin, holding his gaze with an intensity Greg had never seen in another person.  _ "Anything,  _ sergeant. Please."

There was an awful pause. Greg thought he knew what was being hinted, and he wasn't willing to think about that. He couldn't imagine the misery that would cause someone to sink that low. He didn't like seeing people go through it, and he didn't like the thought that he seemed like he'd accept an offer like that.

He pulled his hands out of Mycroft's, feeling a little cold.

"If this is an  _ obsession,"  _ he said, "he'll just be back in a month or two. This is out of my hands, Mr Holmes. Maybe social services can help you find - I don't know, some kind of support - something to keep him busy..."

"Sergeant -  _ please  _ \- "

"I'm sorry. Honestly, I'm sorry."

"Sergeant, a jail sentence will not  _ fix  _ him. It will only  _ worsen  _ him. He hasn't harmed anyone - there's no reason to keep him away from ordinary citizens - and I'm sorry for his attempts to humiliate you - but  _ please  _ \- "

_ Christ. _

_ Christ, he's never even attempted to - _

_ Just trying to solve things. Puzzles. _

_ And we weren't going to find Jessica Kelly any time soon. _

This was getting out of hand. Greg drew a stiff breath, intervened and stopped Mycroft pleading, taking hold of his shoulders.

"Hey," he said, his voice firm. "Hey... easy."

Mycroft Holmes shuttered into silence, his shoulders shaking where Greg held them. He dropped his eyes to the pavement and breathed, looking on the verge of collapse.

Greg gave him a moment to calm. 

"Look, I... I don't think your brother's any harm. I don't think he cares whether my DI's alive or dead, frankly, let alone showing her up. I get what you mean about puzzles. It's... if that's just how his brain works, then..."

A possibility occured.

It felt crap - a throwaway thing - but it was all Greg could think to offer.

"Listen. Sherlock - wants to solve things, right? It keeps him out of trouble?"

Despair filled Mycroft's eyes. "Please do not suggest sudoku. I've tried every possible trivial pastime that - "

"I've got  _ cold cases,"  _ Greg interrupted, staring at him - and watched Mycroft's face open. "I've got boxes of them. Actual genuine crimes. They're the real deal. They're sat in my DI's office, all of them. If I sent you some of those, maybe - and you gave them to Sherlock? He can crawl all over them. He can investigate them to his heart's content. If he needs more info, I'll try and get him what I can - can't promise much - but it's better than nothing, right?"

He gripped Mycroft's shoulders, feeling them tremble.

"And you tell him to contact  _ me  _ about it, okay?  _ Not  _ Sally." He reached inside his jacket, searching for cards. "Tell him not to go near her again. Not by text, not by e-mail, nothing. Just straight to me. I'll give him stuff to work on, if he promises to keep off her current cases. Then everybody's happy - right?"

Mycroft looked as if he wanted to weep.

"Sergeant - "

He took Greg's card, his hands shaking.

"I - I can't thank you enough for..." He looked into Greg's eyes, broken.  _ "Thank you." _

Greg felt his throat squeeze as he swallowed.

"S'fine," he said. "It's... tricky, I know. Family." He pushed his hands into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders stiff. "If you're right, and your Sherlock just wants to keep busy, then... let's try and keep him busy. Means my DI won't spend half of every week shouting at me about him, and you can finish your shopping in peace."

He glanced at the bag in Mycroft's hand, giving him a smile.

Mycroft looked down. He discovered the bag as if he'd forgotten it existed, and flushed, breathing out for the first time in minutes.

"Thank you, sergeant... I - appreciate your support more than I can possibly say."

"Don't mention it." Biting his lip, Greg turned to one of the uniformed constables. "Hey. Go fetch the prisoner, will you? I'm releasing him into custody. Nobody mention this to the boss and I'll stand you all a pint at The White Lion on Friday. Right?"

Sherlock was brought from the van.

As he spotted Mycroft at the barrier, he didn't look too impressed.

"What are  _ you  _ doing here?" he sneered at his brother, frowning as Greg lifted the tape and bent him beneath it. "Should you not be busy making tea? Filing your nails?"

Mycroft flushed angrily. 

"I am not a secretary," he muttered, taking Sherlock from Greg's hands. "And this is my sorry attempt at a lunch hour. You owe Sergeant Lestrade a great deal." He glanced at Greg, the colour still high in his cheeks. "As do I."

Greg gave him a smile, and offered a hand across the tape.

"No worries, Mr Holmes. Glad we could solve it."  _ Glad I won't get yelled at all afternoon. _

Mycroft took his hand. They shook - and Greg knew it was his imagination, but the hold seemed to linger just a little.

"Thank you, sergeant. I'm deeply, truly grateful."

"S'fine. Honestly. Better to deal with these things off the record." Greg offered his hand next to the younger Holmes, with a business card tucked in his palm. "Sherlock. Good to meet you - it's Greg. Your brother's gonna have a present for you in a day or two. Box'll say it's from me, but really it's from him. Right?"

Sherlock Holmes gave him a guarded look, as wary as a feline. He shook Greg's hand, examined the card, then with a frown permitted his brother to coax him away from the barrier. "Goodbye, Greg."

Greg smiled, sliding his thumbs into his pockets.

"Text me about the bus tickets, will you? M'very interested."

Sherlock Holmes raised an eyebrow. "I shall."

Mycroft removed a mobile phone from the inside of his jacket. As he dialed a number, then held it to his ear, he turned back to Greg. 

Their eyes met; gratitude softened his features. 

"Thank you again," he said. "I'm very much in your debt, sergeant."

Greg smiled. "'Greg'," he said. After a moment's pause, he decided to bloody go for it. "You've got my number. Buy me a drink some time."

He watched Mycroft Holmes flush with startled pleasure. "Yes, I - I will." The caller on the line answered; Mycroft turned his attention to his phone.

As he strolled back towards the crime scene, Greg heard him say,

"Hello - 'Holmes' - immediately, please. From Whitfield Street to Baker Street, and then onto Thames House."

_ Thames House. _

_ Yikes. _

_ That's MI5. _

Rubbing his lower lip between his teeth, Greg let himself wonder.

 


	3. A Bit of Purpose

Greg was careful to space out the cold cases. He didn't want Sally to realise he'd been outsourcing them. If there were people still waiting to hear on the outcome, or criminals still waiting for justice, he made sure they would come to light in time - even gave a few to other sergeants to handle. It might happen slowly, but in time they would all be closed.

It was all thanks to Sherlock Holmes.

Greg didn't mind the texts. There were never more than a couple a day, and it was easy enough to help. He dug up what information he could, sent it Sherlock's way and apologised for those missing pieces now lost to time - not that Sherlock seemed to resent them. If anything, the more threadbare a case, the more he seemed to enjoy it. After the first couple of cases, rather than texting, it became easier for Greg to go round to Baker Street in person to hear Sherlock's explanations. He took careful notes, went away and tested the things they needed for final proof, and let Sherlock know how it went.

And while it was true that Sherlock liked the puzzle, he obviously liked the justice too.

Greg could see it in his face every time. He liked hearing that families were being given closure, and that wrongdoers who thought they'd escaped the law were now facing their rightful punishment.

Sherlock turned out to be surprisingly easy to get along with. 

He functioned on a different operating system - but when you realised that, he suddenly wasn't so much of a problem.

Greg was glad.

It was good to see someone happy and productive. As the weeks went by, he started confiding some of their current cases to Sherlock - explained what he could, listened to Sherlock's suggestions, then followed them through. Sherlock was never wrong. 

And when she didn't know who was supplying them, Sally didn't resent the ideas. Greg presented them as if they were his own, and within minutes she'd be treating them as if  _ she'd  _ thought of them - and before long, their division seemed to be flying.

Sherlock didn't even mind. He waved a hand anytime Greg ever expressed guilt, and informed Greg loftily that applause was for seals balancing a ball on their nose.

The solution, he said, was always its own reward.

For Greg, there was another reward yet to come.

 

*

 

The call came through on a Friday lunchtime. It was an unknown number, but there was nothing unusual about that. Greg was standing at the back of a press conference at the time, watching DI Sally Donovan announce Scotland Yard's latest triumph to the watching news cameras.

He slipped out of the door to answer it in the corridor.

"Lestrade?" he said, keeping his voice low, tucking the phone against his ear.

He didn't recognise the caller at first. The voice was clever, soft, and just a little nervous.

"Sergeant Lestrade? It's... Mycroft Holmes." There came an adorable pause. "Sherlock's brother."

Greg's heart flipped right over in his chest. He grinned, biting into his lip, and leant against the wall. "Mr Holmes...! Hi. Good to hear from you. How're things?"

Mycroft's sounded like he was smiling, too.

"Things are rather excellent, as it happens. In no small part, thanks to you..." There came the quiet creak of an office chair. "I can't remember seeing Sherlock this stable and content. It's astonishing, sergeant... truly. I owe you a great deal."

Greg's chest expanded.

"M'glad to hear it," he said. "Your brother's a good guy... he just needed a bit of purpose. That's all. If I've helped at all, then m'glad."

"You're incredibly kind," Mycroft said, fondly. "And very gracious. The difference you've made to my brother is incalculable."

Greg heard him draw a breath.

"In fact, I... wondered if you'd let me express my gratitude," he said. Greg gripped his phone tightly. "I hoped I could treat you to dinner... there's a very nice restaurant near to Scotland Yard. The Northall? They do an excellent steak."

Greg took a moment just to breathe, grinning to himself in the empty corridor.

"Sounds great," he said, and heard Mycroft exhale too. "Sure. I'd love to. Did you - have a particular day in mind?"

The note of hopeful hesitation was beautiful. "If you're not busy this evening, I have the night off. I could meet you there at seven, if that suits."

"Seven tonight."  _ Christ, tonight. This night today.  _ "Great. The Northall, you said?"

"Y-Yes - Northumberland Avenue. It's in the Corinthia Hotel."

_ Jesus. Definitely posh.  _ "Corinthia Hotel - got it. I'll see you there." Before he could hang up, Greg said, "Hey... Mycroft?"

He could almost hear that lovely blush. "Yes, sergeant?"

"It's 'Greg'."

Mycroft let out a little rush of air. "Of course... Greg."

_ Christ, yes. _

_ Yes, yes, yes. _

"See you tonight, then," Greg said, feeling his heart fizz inside his chest.

"Until then," Mycroft says, and hesitated. He didn't want to hang up. "Do enjoy your afternoon."

Greg grinned. "You too." He took the phone from his ear, and watched the call end.

He would have to get out of here early - go home and change. He'd need a shave and a proper tie, if he was having posh dinner with a posh MI5 boy.

He wondered if Sally would let him sneak out at five. He supposed he'd have to ask.

It was a good job she'd been in such a good mood lately.

 

*

 

When Mycroft arrived at the hotel, he found Sergeant Lestrade already waiting for him - full suit and tie, charcoal grey, somehow even more magnificent than the memories of him.  _ God help me. You beautiful man.  _ As Mycroft got close enough, he caught a hint of cologne on the air - a Valentino, smoky and a little sweet, and all Mycroft wanted to do was chase it to its source at once, find precisely where on the man's wrists, neck and body that beguiling scent had been applied.

Greg grinned as Mycroft came towards him. His arms opened a little, and Mycroft's heart squeezed to half its size at once.  _ A hug. Familiar. Not the formality of a handshake.  _ Mycroft reached him, smiling graciously - and the wrap of the man's arms took the breath from his lungs.

"Hey..." Greg rumbled in his ear, holding him. His embrace was sublime; warm, tight and magnificently male. "Good to see you..."

Mycroft resisted the urge to card his fingers through Greg's hair, bite his neck or push him against the wall. All three appealed enormously. "Yes - very. To see you, too. Thank you, for..."

"Good day so far?" Greg asked, his arms still tight. 

Mycroft couldn't bring himself to break the hold. It had been two long years since a miserable one-night stand with an ex-boyfriend. The feeling of arms around him, a warm body against his own, was nothing short of heaven.

"Very good," he managed. In truth, much of his day had been spent in anxious expectation of this very moment. Miss Harding had even teased him a little.  _ 'And what are you wearing, Mycroft? Something sufficiently beguiling, I hope? He sounds as if he'll be worth the effort.'  _

"And... h-how are you?"

"M'great." Greg smiled against his cheek. "Even better now."

_ Oh, god.  _ Mycroft wanted to swoon over on the steps.  _ A handsome policeman. Protective. Kind. Caring towards Sherlock - compassionate, understanding - and he hugs like this. _

_ God help me. _

"Shall we get our table?" Greg said. "Looking forward to this 'excellent steak' I've heard about. Been staring at the website all afternoon."

Mycroft had been staring at news footage of Greg Lestrade all afternoon, standing outside Scotland Yard at the shoulder of his DI, stoic and serious and so handsome he could make the pavement blush. 

"Yes, of course. I reserved us a table on the mezzanine level. I thought it might afford us a little more privacy."

As they finally step apart, Greg smiled fondly. His hands seemed reluctant to leave Mycroft's waist.

"Good," he said. "'Cause I have a  _ lot  _ of questions... and only most of them about Sherlock."

Mycroft felt his cheeks colour, unable to fight a smile.

"Very well," he said. "Be aware that I have very few answers on that subject... I imagine you're far more qualified than I am now."

Greg took his arm.

"Don't worry, Mr Holmes. I'll make it an easy questioning for you." He nudged open the door to the restaurant, and dropped Mycroft a wink. "Won't even need your lawyer present."

 

*

 

Dinner was wonderful. The food was exquisite, the restaurant beautiful, and by the light of the chandelier above them Greg seemed a thousand times more charming. He was gracious, gentlemanly and fond; he listened with enjoyment to every word that Mycroft said. They shared a bottle of white wine and chocolate ganache for dessert. Mycroft found himself so swept away that he even permitted Greg to feed him a few spoonfuls across the table, grinning at each other like men half their age. 

As Greg chatted happily about his family, about his work and his childhood in east London, Mycroft couldn't stop gazing at him. Even fresh-shaven, his jaw had a magnificent hint of grey stubble that Mycroft longed to stroke his lips across. As he talked, Greg's hands were expressive and open, and they looked as if they would feel gentle on Mycroft's skin. His cologne was only deepening as the hours pass.

Even before their after-dinner coffees arrived, Mycroft had decided that at the first hint of an invitation, he would be waking up beside Greg in the morning.

As Greg stirred two spoons of sugar into his coffee, he glanced up with a rather dark-eyed smile.

"Don't judge me," he warned.

Mycroft bit into his lower lip, smiling. "I wouldn't dream of it," he said. "'Police coffee', is it? I imagine it's like 'builder's tea'."

"We need the sugar. Keeps us going." Greg grinned, running the question around his mouth for a second. "What's 'MI5 cocoa' like?"

Mycroft felt his heart squirm. He glanced down into his coffee, trying to mask his humour and failing. He was quite accustomed to lying diplomatically about his position; it was hard to lie to those eyes, though.

"As I do not work for MI5, I wouldn't know." He gave Greg a fond look. "I can tell you that I make a lot of Earl Grey tea. Occasionally some of it is for me."

Greg listened, the corner of his mouth upturned. "Sherlock seems to think you're a secretary."

"I'm - rather more than that." Mycroft held his affectionate gaze, torn between modesty and the longing to impress. "The nearest title would be a personal assistant. I can't discuss my work in great detail, but... I suppose I occupy a similar role to you."

Greg's eyes glittered. "You're a bagman, are you?"

Mycroft laughed. He couldn't help it.

"Quite." He took a sip of coffee, trying to conceal his delight. "A bagman perhaps, but... it rather suits me. I find it fits my skills. And, now that Sherlock is easier to manage, I've found myself able to relax and enjoy my personal life a little more."

He brushed his toes over Greg's ankle beneath the table.

"Thanks to you," he added, softly.

Greg's eyes shone in the light of the chandelier. "It's not a problem... you know that? Not at all."

Mycroft looked down, smiling.

"It was," he admitted. "I - worried rather deeply for him at one point. I no longer have to. I greatly appreciate what you've done for my brother, Greg..." He paused. "What you've done for me."

As he glanced up from his coffee, the proud grin he found coming back at him was perfection itself.

"You're welcome," Greg said. He was all eyes and shadow, Mycroft thought - soft and dark and wonderful, trustworthy and gorgeous, as warm as a fire on a winter's night. "M'happy to help. However I can. Honestly it means a lot that you'll rely on me."

Mycroft's heart heaved at its seams. "Life is rather excellent," he decided, permitting a little mischief to enter his gaze. "Even for a bagman."

Greg grinned; his foot stroked Mycroft's ankle.

"It is," he said. "Not always easy being a second-in-command, but... well, there's perks. Boss is on call all this weekend. I'm not."

Mycroft smiled, feeling hope stir in his stomach. "Mm? Have you any plans?"

"Not really." Greg lifted his coffee to his mouth. "Sleep late, big breakfast. Maybe go for a jog. Nothing dramatic."

_ Mm. No schedule to stick to. _

"What about you?" Greg asked, with casual interest. "What're you up to?"

Mycroft attempted to keep his actual plans beneath the surface of his face. They involved finding out how late Greg usually slept, and assisting him in consumption of this big breakfast.

"I have some minor tasks to complete before Monday," he said, discreetly, "but otherwise, my weekend is fairly open... I might drop in on Sherlock at some point. See how he is."

Greg smiled against the rim of his cup.

"He's up near Orkney," he said. "Unsolved disappearance in the sixties. Says he's nearly cracked it."

"Oh?" Mycroft took a sip of coffee. "Then it seems I'm free and easy."

The brightness that crossed Greg's eyes was a sight he would cherish. Greg smiled at him, soft and dark, with an unconcealed interest that tugged at his heart.

"There's a good bar near here," Greg said. He rubbed his foot along Mycroft's calf. "Let me buy you a drink? I don't feel like calling it a night yet."

Mycroft felt his stomach flutter. "Very well."

 


	4. Lucky Boy

The small hours of Saturday morning had arrived by the time the taxi pulled up outside Greg's flat. He looked at Mycroft along the seat, his gaze warm and intense in the darkness.

"Come in for coffee," he said.

Mycroft's lips curved, his pulse quick and deep.

"I don't drink coffee, I'm afraid. Interferes with my sleep cycle."

Greg's eyes gleamed. "Come in for cocoa."

Biting his lip, Mycroft suppressed the swoop in his stomach. "How kind."

As the taxi drove away into the night, Greg slipped an arm around Mycroft's waist. They walked to the door together, a single silhouette against the pavement - a little drunk, a little in love, two people alone for the first time.

Greg retrieved his keys from his back pocket with his off-hand.

"I had a great time tonight," he said. "A really great time..."

Mycroft's blood warmed. He tilted his head, nosing gently at that tantalising line of stubble. "It's now at an end?" he hummed. "How sad."

Greg grinned as they reach the front door. He started sorting through his keys.

"S'pose I've not made you cocoa yet," he said, and Mycroft noted his fingers had a discreet tremor to them. "Can't leave before you've had your cocoa."

Mycroft closed his eyes. He ran his mouth along Greg's jaw. "You haven't made me a few things yet, sergeant."

Greg inhaled.

"Jesus," he murmured, dropped his keys without a care and turned to Mycroft, stepping into his body. He nudged Mycroft back against the front of the building, gently pinning him in place.

As he dipped his head, Mycroft's soul took flight.

Greg's mouth pressed against his own, warm and soft; every thought went quiet.

Greg's lips and tongue were gentle. His hands were tender as they slid around Mycroft's waist, appraising the lines of his body with longing. The press of bare bricks against Mycroft's back made him tremble, and as he pushed his hands through Greg's hair, he felt the other man breathe in and pin him tighter into place. Greg's tongue slipped through into his mouth. Mycroft's groan was impossible to keep. Within moments, every inch of his skin ached with the need to be touched. He wanted to know what Greg's bed sheets felt like. He wanted to feel the animal warmth of his body.

"Stay," Greg whispered, cupping Mycroft's face with both hands. His mouth stroked the words, soft and slow. "Stay the night. Stay tomorrow night. Just stay."

Joy flickered in Mycroft's chest like a flame. His eyes fell shut.

"Take me upstairs," he moaned. _"Please."_

 

*

 

Greg's sheets were silver grey, and freshly changed. The thought that they'd been changed in advance of being seen gave Mycroft a quiet thrill of pleasure as soon as he saw them - imagining Greg earlier in the afternoon, stripping off the old ones, laying out the new, hoping Mycroft would be here to appreciate them.

He couldn't resent the presumption - not when they felt so good against his skin.

It didn't feel like they had to pretend anything. As soon as Greg's door closed behind them, they were kissing. Hands went searching restlessly under clothes, whispering _I want you_ with every exploratory caress, buttons pulled apart with sharp sighs, zips dragged down, lips bitten and moans tightening as the need to lie down together in the darkness grew unbearable. Mycroft found himself panting already, desperate for more skin, more closeness, more sounds. Greg's neck smelled masculine and warm. He wanted to smell the rest of Greg, too - stroke his hair - feel his weight - hear him lose control.

Greg finally broke the frenzied kiss to shuck his half-unbuttoned shirt off over his head. His eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of the flat. He bent down, swept an arm under Mycroft's knees and lifted him without so much as an intake of breath, carrying him through the darkness.

Mycroft held tight around his neck, his heart beating hard.

He held on as Greg lowered him onto the bed. Greg leant down and kissed the centre of his chest, exposed by the half-unbuttoned mess of his shirt, then with tenderness pulled open the rest of the buttons. While tending to Mycroft's trousers his mouth roamed with longing down Mycroft's neck and over his collarbones, ghosting over his nipples, his stomach, light and affectionate kisses edged with the very softest stroke of stubble. Panting, blushing, Mycroft squirmed to aid in the removal of his trousers and underwear. As they came off his ankles, he found himself suddenly and desperately naked, laid out on Greg's bed, feeling fragile and feverish. The look of smouldering appraisal he was given did nothing to ease his arousal. He stirred a little, shy.

Greg smiled. His eyes grazed and lingered on Mycroft's cock, swollen and even leaking a little already.

Mycroft gazed back, panting. He made a hopeful sound.

Greg followed his eyes with his hands - and then his mouth.

Every firm flash of tongue made Mycroft gasp. Every slow slide of lips had him shaking, every deep and encouraging hum, every sweep of tender hands across his stomach and thighs. Greg was _thorough._ He licked Mycroft's cock as if he had all the time in the world, and intended to take it. He guided Mycroft's fretful hands into his hair, reassuring him with a gentle squeeze that he was allowed to grip. When Mycroft's whimpers became too frantic or his breathing too tight, he eased back just to kiss Mycroft's thighs - whisper to him - hush him, cool him, let him calm again.

By the time he kissed his way back up the bed, Mycroft was almost insensible with excitement. He turned Greg onto his back at once, climbed onto him and kissed him, and for a while they simply ground together, panting, warming each other with this slow simulation of what they both wanted. Greg's soft stroking of Mycroft's thighs slowly slid upwards to his arse, cupping and squeezing, pawing - hoping.

At last, when staying in two separate bodies was more than Mycroft could take, he pulled back enough from Greg's mouth to gasp, "L-Lubricant?"

"Top drawer," Greg breathed, his voice tight. "Left-hand side."

"Do you - sh-should we use - "

"I get tested every - ... m'clean. Are you - ?"

"Clean," Mycroft said, shaking, uncapping the lubricant with a pop. He squeezed a generous amount into his palm. "I - I haven't... in a while. Do you mind if we go slowly?"

Greg's expression wracked with want. "Fuck - please - I love slowly."

"G-Good." As Mycroft began to stroke Greg's cock, spreading the slick gel, Greg groaned and twitched. Mycroft felt his pulse soar in response. "God help me - you are - so _handsome_ \- "

"E-Easy..." Greg swallowed, stretching. He bit into his lip. "I'm - r-really turned on - "

 _No more preparing. No more foreplay._ Mycroft shivered, shifting with care to guide Greg's cock into position. Greg reached for his waist, fingers brushing with a slight shake over his skin.

"You sure?" he whispered. "I can - fingers, if you - "

"No, I - I should be fine..." Mycroft planted a hand in the middle of Greg's chest, closing his eyes as he settled himself against the tip of Greg's cock. _God help me, you feel huge._ "A-Always preferred just - "

"Y-Yeah. Yeah, me too." Greg gripped his waist, stroking. "Take your time. Whatever you need, gorgeous."

The first few inches were the worst - not uncomfortable enough to stop, but still more painful than Mycroft remembered this being. Greg was larger than he could remember ever having; he was hard as rock, slightly curved, and the instinctive resistance of Mycroft's muscles wasn't easily breathed through.

Greg was perfect - stroking his thighs and stomach, soothing his flagging erection with a hand, murmuring to him, whispering, coaxing him to take a minute each time he winced.

It took a while. When he was finally seated, Mycroft leant down to kiss Greg's mouth. He shivered as Greg stroked his back, breathing with him, and for some time they just rested inside of each other, kissing, until he could feel his body finally starting to adjust. The sharper stretch had become a burn, low and full, a heavy ache that made him tighten and moan as he tried a first experimental rock. Greg shivered beneath him, offering a single gentle thrust upwards.

_Ohh - god -_

_Yes -_

The skitter of pleasure left Mycroft's mouth as a gasp. He shifted, shaking, and braced both his hands on Greg's powerful shoulders. Greg gazed up at him, expression soft.

Gently rolling his hips felt good. It was an easy movement - barely riding, simply stirring - and as the minutes went by, it felt better and better to slide himself up and down. Greg's eyes stayed on his face throughout, watching him with a protective care that caused Mycroft's pulse to leap with every glance. At last, as he could take Greg from root to tip in long and slow glides without discomfort, he felt Greg shake underneath him and breathe in, hard.

"Y-Yes?" Mycroft whispered, trembling.

"Yes..." Greg's hands flexed at his waist, tightening, pulling him down a little on each stroke. _He wants more. He wants deeper._ Mycroft carefully sped up, and watched longing rush across Greg's face. "F-Fuck - y-yeah - "

_I feel good for him. I'm tight. I'm warm inside, slick. I feel good to fuck._

_Oh, god - we're fucking -_

_He's inside me -_

Hearing his own ragged moan of desperation, Mycroft felt his cock throb. This was incredible. It was worth every moment of the stretch. He steadied his grip on Greg's shoulders and with a deep breath began to move like he meant it, riding, watching Greg's features tighten with irrepressible enjoyment.

"J-Jesus, fuck - " The sounds broke forth in a stream. "Oh fuck, _yes_ \- r-ride me - ride me, gorgeous... fuck me - take what you need from me - "

_Oh, god -_

A sudden warm thrill of pleasure, a sudden instinct to thrust and fuck, and Mycroft realised Greg had wrapped him in a lubed hand, meeting each of his movements with a tight squeeze and a slide of his fist from head to root. Pushing through Greg's fingers sent fire flashing beneath the surface of his skin. He couldn't breathe.

_Oh my god - too soon, too soon -_

_Now -_

_Right now -_

As he striped Greg's chest with his come, whimpering and panting at full pelt, through the blinding white sting of pleasure Mycroft felt himself clenching around Greg's cock over and over. Greg choked out some sound, some gorgeous wild fragment of his name and 'yes' and 'fuck' all in one, gasped it, _moaned_ it, stretching beneath Mycroft and bucking upwards into his body as he climaxed with a shout.

When the pulsing eased - as it drifted into beautiful quiet, and ripples of calm began to spread from Mycroft's tailbone outwards through his body - he found himself lying on Greg's chest in the darkness. His lover's fingers were combing through his hair, soothing through his sweat.

Mycroft realised he felt utterly, perfectly safe.

As he stirred, Greg's cock eased free from his body. He felt a shiver pass between them, shared; something about the wetness between his thighs felt gloriously, indecently intimate. He would be aching tomorrow.

He hoped he was aching rather often from now on.

Greg pressed a quiet kiss against his hair, and murmured, "Got a confession to make."

The playful tone caught Mycroft's ear. He smiled, brushing his nose through the dark scattering of hair on Greg's chest. "Confess."

"When I said 'cocoa'..." Greg said, his voice low and soft, "I might've meant 'immediate passionate sex'."

Mycroft grinned against his chest. "Mhm. I was rather hoping you did."

"Did I provide?"

"Yes," Mycroft breathed without a pause, and delighted in the laugh it provoked. "I shan't say no to another demonstration later, if you'd like to leave me in no doubt about the matter..."

He could feel Greg smiling against his forehead. "So... sex first, then cocoa... then more sex..."

"Then sleep, perhaps?"

"Then sex?"

"Naturally. Breakfast to follow, and then - ?"

" - I mean, 'sex' would fit the pattern..."

"Mm. Shame to break it, when we've spent so much time establishing it..."

Greg chuckled, stretching with a contented sigh. He hugged Mycroft close with one arm. "I  _love_  the way you think."

 

*

 

At nine AM on Monday morning, two forms on Miss Harding's desk awaited her signature.

The first was a suspension of all surveillance on William Sherlock Scott Holmes, to be effective immediately and with no further action required.

The second was a registration of an intimate partner - in the name of Detective Sergeant Gregory James Lestrade.

Anthea returned the form to Mycroft with a wink.

"I expect him to treat you splendidly," she said. "Only the best for my assistant."

Mycroft's fingers curled with happiness around the form. "He shows every intention, Miss Harding."

"Indeed?" she intoned, pleased. "Lucky boy." As her heels clicked away from his desk, she said, "My office in ten minutes, please. Bring coffee and something to write on."

Mycroft quickly stifled his smile.

He had a feeling it was going to be a good day.

 

*

 

Greg waited for Sally's BMW in the car park, ready with coffee and a bacon roll in a bag. It wasn't hard to feel happy today. He kept remembering the night before - long legs wrapped tight around his waist, soft moans that turned his heart to molten gold, ardent panting that took the shape of his name.

Sally smiled as she spotted him - he even got a wave. She parked up and locked her car, then handed him her briefcase in exchange for coffee.

"Good weekend, ma'am?" he asked, as they headed for the stairs.

"Called out," she said. "Bloody Brixton. Can't even go one weekend without a stabbing."

She tapped in the code for the security door, and Greg held it open for her to pass through.

"How about you?" she said, with a sideways look of appraisal. "You seem awfully pleased with yourself."

Greg grinned a little, averting his eyes. "I, ah. Enjoyed my date on Friday."

_And on Saturday._

_And on Sunday, too._

Sally made a noise of enormous interest. "Oh, really?" she said, raising her eyebrows at him as they climbed the stairs together. "No wonder there's a gleam in your eye. I hope it's left you in the mood for organising the duty roster."

Greg cast her a smile. "You know me, ma'am. _Always_ in the mood for duty rosters. Love the bloody things."

His governor grinned, patting him on the back.

"Attaboy, Lestrade," she said. "Fetch him along to the pub on Friday, won't you? Better make sure he's good enough for you."

 

**The End**

 


End file.
